Soulless
by iamthelie
Summary: A serial killer takes a twisted interest in a certain detective. Woody Jordan pairing.
1. Sorry You Caught My Eye

**Soulless**  
******Chapter One: You'll Be Sorry You Caught My Eye  
**Rating: PG-13 (I think)  
**Word Count:** 1,346  
**Disclaimer:** I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan.  
**Summary:** A serial killer takes a twisted interest in a certain detective.  
**Pairing: **Woody/Jordan  
**Author's Note: **While my previous fics were more humorous than dramatic or suspenseful, this isn't. It's a pretty big divergence from the others. And my life is unbearably busy, so I won't be able to update as often as I have in the past. Tell me honestly if this sucks. I need to know if I should finish it.

* * *

You'll Be Sorry You Caught My Eye

She wore dark glasses. Not to be stylish, though she was always dressed impeccably. Not to be mysterious, though she left many people wondering. She wasn't blind. She wasn't hiding dark bruises or black eyes. She wore these glasses because she didn't have a soul. She knew that it could be seen through her eyes. The eyes had betrayed her before, made her parents turn from her in fear, made her husband avoid her. Though if he'd been smart, he would have left long before she helped him go.

She was cold, that was the excuse he gave her for his infidelity. She hadn't cared. He was a pathetic man, and she'd only married him to escape the mental hospital her parents had wanted to commit her to all those years ago. When he finally died, she was happy. It didn't last long.

Happiness never lasted. Not for her. She hated people. Everyone. She didn't care that the world was growing worse and worse by the day. It made sense. What bothered her were the people who fought against that tide, who were happy, kind, generous, and hopeful despite reality. Good Samaritans, philanthropists, she hated them. They were too good for this world. And she was willing to remove them. They had no place here. Not anymore.

Like the man who had held the door open for her. He was young, wholesome, with an odd innocence and genuine smile. She encountered dozens of men who fell over themselves in an attempt to gain access to her body, but he was only looking after her well-being. She could have been ugly, old, fat, young, tall, short, even odorous, and he would still have opened the door for her. If he'd been a pig like all other men, if he'd seen nothing more than the supple, youthful body that was the envy of her peers, it would have been ordinary, dismissible. But his kindness irritated her.

She watched him, filled with hatred. He'd been kind, courteous to the idiot taking the orders, even after three pathetic screw-ups. The woman who accompanied him had not been so generous, and he'd pulled her back, calmed her down.

"It's not that hard to be sympathetic, Jordan," he told her, helping her to a table. This Jordan was cynical, world weary, and dismissed without another thought.

"Sympathetic? We're not in Wisconsin, Farm Boy. This is Boston. And that pig deserved it."

"Sure. When he tries to kill you, don't ask for my help," the man muttered, reaching for his coffee. And Jordan smiled, unaware of their observer. Yes, the man had said no, but it was obvious that he didn't mean it. He'd go through hell for the woman by his side.

The woman with the dark glasses finally smiled. She had just found her next victim.

* * *

The call Woody got that interrupted his—and Jordan's—breakfast led them to an upscale apartment on the north side of Boston. This was the home of Gerald Brown, fifty-three, and his wife, Beatrice. Brown was a renowned philanthropist and businessmen. Two days ago, his wife had reported him missing. She had returned from her sister's this morning to find him here, dead. 

"He used his key. No sign of forced entry," Woody commented, watching Jordan go over the body. She was good at this. Too good.

"Single stab wound to the heart, looks like your cause of death, but I'll need to make sure." That was Jordan. Never accepting the obvious. She studied Brown again. "Lividity's not set. He's still warm. Probably dead less than an hour."

"That fits with the surveillance," Woody agreed. "He entered the building at 7:56. Hit the eleventh floor at 7:58. Wife found him at 8:10. She came home for some necessities. She's been staying with her sister since her husband disappeared. She was still standing in the doorway when the neighbors reached her. Screaming. Never entered the room."

"That doesn't make sense, Woody. No one could have stabbed Brown and escaped in that short of a window. The door was locked, right? It's the eleventh floor—"

"No balcony. Fire escape is down the hall."

"And there wasn't anyone on the surveillance tape?"

"No. I don't think anyone's had time to tamper with it, but I'll have Nigel look at it just in case," Woody said, looking around the apartment. Brown was filthy. The apartment was pristine. Everything was so white it was near blinding, and the wife had been hysterical enough to scream at people to take off their shoes. "He must have been held somewhere…"

"We'll probably find something on trace," Jordan told him, standing to pat him on the arm reassuringly.

He nodded. She looked at him, sensing his mood, and he shook his head as he walked away. He didn't want to talk about it now. He knew that there was no way that Mrs. Brown had killed her husband. It was almost a locked room murder, but there was no way this could be suicide. No one had time to remove the knife, and there wasn't one near the body…or in the body, where it should have been if this was suicide. No one had been in the apartment before the scene was secured.

This kind of case was hell. Brown was revered. So was his widow.

Woody had better run down the missing persons detective who had the Brown case. When the discovery was made, Rhodes was out pursuing a lead. Woody hoped it helped solve the murder.

"Detective," Mrs. Brown called as he walked out of the apartment. She'd been taken in by her neighbors, unwilling to leave and not allowed into the crime scene. Reluctantly, he went over to her. She was still crying. "Why would anyone kill Gerry?"

"We don't know that, Mrs. Brown. We're going to find out," he promised, thinking that he should have been asking her that question. "I know you probably told Detective Rhodes, but…do you have any idea who could have been behind your husband's disappearance?"

She shook her head, bursting into tears. Woody felt like a heel just for doing his job. He let the woman neighbor who'd helped Mrs. Brown before usher her back into the other apartment and gratefully ducked into the elevator.

He was about to push the button when he stopped with a curse. "Jordan!"

She came out of the Brown apartment, frowning at him. "You bellowed?"

He pointed to the elevator. Her eyes widened, and she started working without a word.

* * *

She found it intriguing that the man she'd targeted that morning was a policeman. A _homicide_ detective. How could he continue to be so nice, so optimistic and caring was unbelievable. Oh, she had seen sides of him that weren't as giving and generous as he vented his frustration and anger over her latest victim's confusing death, but at the core…He was a nice man. A _gentleman._

It was a shame that she had to wait at least another week before killing him. She would have to be content with the other one. A real bleeding heart, Mr. Martin. Barely lived from day to day because he gave everything he had to his charities. Volunteered at a homeless shelter. Was a Big Brother. Was considered by many a saint.

She wanted him dead. Sadly, not as much as she wanted Hoyt dead. She paused. She had never cared about any of the other policemen who had tried to find her victims or solve their murders. They never came close enough to worry her. Hoyt didn't even know she existed.

She wanted him dead.

She wanted him to suffer.

She looked at Martin, his foolish good nature leading him to stop for the woman with the flat tire. She smiled at him, using her petite frame to exaggerate an innocence and helplessness that did not exist.

She knew how to torture Hoyt. More good Samaritans would die. And he would be the one trying to solve every murder.

With vicious glee, she hit Martin with the tire iron.


	2. Give a Pretty Present

**Soulless**  
******Chapter Two: I'll Give You a Pretty Present  
**Rating: PG-13 (I think)  
**Word Count:** 1,502  
**Disclaimer:** I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan.  
**Summary:** A serial killer takes a twisted interest in a certain detective.  
**Pairing: **Woody/Jordan  
**Author's Note: **While my previous fics were more humorous than dramatic or suspenseful, this isn't. It's a pretty big divergence from the others. And my life is unbearably busy, so I won't be able to update as often as I have in the past. Little quickie update this time... I'm feeling the need to rewrite the next section, so...that may be a while. Appreciate the reviews very much, as always. :)

Ah, yes... almost forgot... no beta, all mistakes mine... anyone interested in being a sounding board?

* * *

**I'll Give You a Pretty Present**

"A basement?" Woody asked, running his hand over his face. "That's the best you can give me? Just... _a basement?_ All these technological devices that usually tell you the impossible, and the only thing you can tell me is what is painfully obvious?"

Jordan touched Nigel's shoulder, knowing that he was bristling at Woody's tone, the words he spoke out of exhaustion.

"Let's not forget that my technological magic and my vastly superior intellect solved that nasty locked room puzzle," Nigel began irritably. "You'd never even _heard_ of Empress Eugenie."

Woody rubbed his back. Jordan winced, knowing that his old wound was acting up on him. He was working too hard--everyone was--but the pressure wasn't on everyone like it was on him. He was the cop who'd drawn the case that uncovered a serial killer. The deaths had happened over the last four years, in areas around Boston, but not _in_ it, not until Gerald Brown.

After Nigel had discovered how Brown died, he had linked the case to nine other murders, and Woody was under pressure to solve _all_ the murders, fast.

It didn't help that Brown was followed by Richard Martin, only days later. Or that they had nothing. The dust and mold from the trace on Brown and Martin screamed _basement_, but there were too many possibilities. Every one of Nigel's tricks had only narrowed it down to ten blocks worth of Boston. Even with the press the case was starting to generate--talk of a task force--there was no way a judge would give the police warrants to search ten blocks of buildings.

Jordan decided it was time to intervene. "Woody, honestly, when was the last time you slept?"

"I caught a couple of hours before Walcott called me in," he muttered.

Jordan exchanged a look with Nigel. "Woody, that was yesterday."

He winced. She had a feeling he hadn't eaten in a while, either. He coughed and cleared his throat, sounding like a man with a cold on top of all his other problems. She wrapped an arm around his, sneaking a hand into his pocket and swiping his keys. "Come on, let's get you a nice full stomach and some uninterrupted sleep."

"Jordan, I can't. I have to--"

"I can make it worth your while," she cajoled, pulling on his already loose tie. His lips were next to hers, barely starting to touch when his phone rang, making them both jump. "Hoyt. What? No, I'm at the morgue. I'll bring one with me. Ten minutes."

He closed the phone. Jordan looked at him. "Not...another one?"

"I don't understand. It was a year between the first two victims. Six months between each of the next five, and now three in the same month? Why?" Woody asked rhetorically as he dug for his keys. She immediately palmed them. He looked at her. "Do I _have_ to remind you that you are officially _off_ this case?"

"Breakfasts together and occasional lunches do not a conflict of interest make," Jordan insisted, only to realize too late that her words were the wrong ones to use.

"_Why do we always come to the same place? You hate this place. And why do you always have to make the same stupid joke every time we come?" Woody demanded, drained from the fruitless search for Brown's killer._

_Jordan smiled. "It's funny." _

_"It's ridiculous," he muttered, but she knew that he was glad they were there. Together. "Do you have anything for me? New information on the case?" _

_"Uh, actually, I wanted to talk about us." _

_"Us? Jordan, there really isn't an 'us.' We're friends. We eat breakfast together. And that's how _you_ wanted it," Woody said bitterly. She winced. He really _was_ in a bad mood. Maybe this was a bad time... But she didn't want to let anything get in the way of this. It was important--_they_--were important._

_"Yes, but if you--" _

_He held up a hand. "We've been over this. If I wasn't an idiot, we'd be more_

_than friends. I know. I really don't need this right now. I've--" _

_"I think we should eat lunch together, too." It came out in a rush, like she was embarrassed by it. She felt her cheeks burning, and she didn't know why. It wasn't like she'd asked him to sleep with her, and she wasn't that inhibited about asking, either. _

_"Lunch, huh? Well, that's big," he muttered._

"_Don't be so difficult, Woody. Please. We promised to take it slow this time."_

"_Which is why we're moving up to lunch together after only one week of eating breakfasts together."_

_His tone was snide. Okay, so she'd picked a bad time for this. "You don't want to eat lunch with me?"_

"_It's not that I don't want to eat lunch with you, Jordan. I do. I'd eat every meal with you, spend every second of the day with you if that was possible," his words were quiet and fervent, no longer mocking or frustrated. "I just thought...I though I had to give you more time, jump through a dozen more hoops..."_

"_Woody, I'm not trying to put you through hoops. This isn't a game. We've hurt each other before. It's been six years. Breakfast is not enough. Lunch may not be, either," she explained._

_He took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Jordan. I don't really want to fight with you. It's just this case..."_

That had been right before Nigel called them with his breakthrough, before he solved the locked room part of the puzzle and found the other cases. In short, right before hell broke loose.

And now, to Woody's frazzled mind, she'd just said their shared meals didn't mean a damn thing.

His look had been murderous. He didn't even try for his keys before he stalked out of the room.

* * *

Woody was being mocked. _Mocked. Tormented. Humiliated. _That was all he could think. It was right there, taunting him, as the others had. He'd known better than to ignore them, but he'd just wanted to pretend they didn't exist. Now he'd made the killer mad. The game had stepped up another notch. He had an urge to vomit that was not particularly pleasant on his empty stomach.

"That's sick," Garret muttered, standing next to Woody. At first, he thought the ME meant the body, but he was staring at the same knife plunged into a heart-shaped box, blood red, filled with chocolates. A Valentine's present gone twisted and wrong. Not that this was from a lover. But it was for him. _For Detective Hoyt. Your _own_bleeding heart._

"Garret...Doctor Macy," Woody seemed to find the words hard to form. "It's not the first."

The older man's head snapped towards him, almost accusing him. "What do you mean, it's not the first?"

Woody closed his eyes, the sleeplessness of the past few days catching up to him. He should have listened to Jordan and ignored his phone. Of course, that probably meant he'd find another damn box of chocolates at his apartment or something.

"I got one the day I picked up the case," he whispered weakly. "And another the day Richard Martin died. I didn't think they meant anything. They weren't stabbed. They weren't signed, either... It was before they called this the 'bleeding heart murderer...'"

He saw the knife again and stumbled away, barely making it out of the crime scene before he lost the nothing that was in his stomach. Macy reached him and touched his back. "Go home, Woody. You're no use to anyone."

"Dr. M--"

"As a doctor and a friend, Woody, I'm telling you—Get your ass out of here. Go home, eat something, and get some sleep. There's nothing more you can do. I'll handle the notification, and you'll get a report, but only if you really do what I tell you to. Now."

Woody looked at him, feeling as lost as he had his first day in Boston. "Dr. Macy... I don't know where my car is."

"Hey, you," Macy called to the nearest uniformed officer. "Take Detective Hoyt home. Doctor's orders."

They helped Woody over to the squad car. He wasn't sure he would have made it without their help. He felt lost and sick as hell. He heard a vague buzzing as the press crowded in on them, trying to get a statement from him, and Dr. Macy kept shouting, "No comment." He looked ready to shove the mics and cameras down their throats.

Woody half-fell into the passenger seat, and Macy started to close the door. "You know we'll get him. We'll find something for you to nail him with."

Woody shook his head. "No, she's too smart for that."


	3. The Heart of the Matter

**Soulless**  
******Chapter Three: The Heart of the Matter  
**Rating: PG-13 (I think)  
**Word Count:** 2,015  
**Disclaimer:** I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan.  
**Summary:** A serial killer takes a twisted interest in a certain detective.  
**Pairing: **Woody/Jordan  
**Author's Note: **While my previous fics were more humorous than dramatic or suspenseful, this isn't. It's a pretty big divergence from the others. And my life is unbearably busy, so I won't be able to update as often as I have in the past.

Okay, so working retail during the "holiday season" nearly killed me. I exaggerate, but only a little. I know I asked for a sounding board last chapter, didn't take anyone up on their offer, though. All mistakes still mine. Apologies for the delay... Oh, and I can't remember if I ever replied to the reviews for the last chapter... Good grief. Well, I do appreciate them and if I haven't replied, I'll correct that error after work tomorrow.

Oh...and I apologize for this chapter. I do. Read and see why.

* * *

**The Heart of the Matter**

"He hates me," Jordan whispered. "He hates me."

"Jordan, love," Nigel began, looking up from his research, "Woody doesn't hate you. He might when you get done putting him through this obstacle course of yours. But he still loves you."

Jordan moaned, putting her head in her hands. She hadn't meant for that to happen, hadn't meant to screw this up again. It was just this case. Woody was stressed. She was stressed. And irritated, angry that everyone was keeping her out of this case. She knew if she could help Woody finish it, solve the murders, then she could get _them_ back. _Woody, there is an _'us.'_I promise._

"What are you working on?" she asked, trying to distract herself.

"Oh, no, love," Nigel said. "You can't have anything to do with this, remember? Woody, Dr. M, the DA, the mayor, even the _governor_ have told you stay out of this."

"I _could_ help. I don't like being pushed off a case that was mine to begin with because a defense attorney _might_ try to get his scummy client off because Woody and I are..."

"Dating?" Nigel finished.

"We're not dating, exactly..."

"Jordan, please don't start this will-they-won't-they thing again. If you want to avoid misunderstandings about your relationship with Woody, give it well-defined terms. Hell, five years is long enough. Get married. That way neither of you has to worry about screwing up the dating process, which, by the way, you're both good at," Nigel said as he moved to find a test tube.

"So, you think I should just go up to him and say, 'Woody, I think we should get married?'"

Before Nigel could answer, Woody coughed. "Wow. Guess I fell asleep on my feet. Ow. No, I don't seem to be dreaming."

"Uh, Woody—"

"No, it's okay. I realized a long time ago that the pinch test isn't infallible. I just want my keys," he muttered dismissively.

"Woody, we really need to talk," Jordan began again.

"You're kind of far down that line, Jordan. The governor, the mayor, the DA, my captain, Dr. Macy, and Roberts from robbery _all_ want to talk to me. The only person I'm willing to talk to right now is my pillow. And since my apartment is now a crime scene, that's not possible," Woody sighed, then straightened his shoulders and glared at her. "I want my keys."

She frowned. "What happened to your apartment?"

"Not sure. Don't care. Keys?"

"Woody, what the hell are you doing here?" Garret demanded from the doorway, causing all of them to jump. Nigel lowered his head behind his computer. Woody wobbled a bit, nearly losing his balance. Jordan tried to reach out to him, but he backed away. Garret came into the room. "I gave you two orders. Eat and sleep. So why are you here?"

"Someone broke into my apartment. I can't go home. Can't afford a hotel. Thought I'd sleep in my car, but Jordan has my keys," Woody explained. He stumbled and caught the counter just in time to keep himself upright.

"Damn it, Woody," Garret cursed and dragged Woody from the room, taking Nigel's lunch with him. Nigel opened his mouth to protest and closed it. Bug came into the room, carrying a box.

"For me?" Nigel asked, rising from his chair. "Buggles, you shouldn't have."

Bug glared at him, holding the box out of Nigel's reach. "Dr. M wants an analysis done on that. I've got a body in Autopsy 2. And keep her out of this."

Jordan held up her hands and backed away as Nigel went to work on what looked like a murdered box of chocolates. Her curiosity was peaked, but she knew Nigel wouldn't tell her anything. Not until she replaced his lunch at least. And she could check on Woody while she was at it.

* * *

"How is he?" 

Garret looked up from the report on Donner McNeil, the Bleeding Heart Murderer's latest victim. The papers were impersonal. McNeil had been a well-liked, well-respected man, and Garret had just left his devastated widow in a state of severe denial, wishing that Lily could talk to her.

"You mean besides working himself into an early grave?" Garret asked rhetorically. He shrugged. "I got Woody to eat despite Nigel's unusual lunch habits, confiscated his cellphone because he got no less than five calls in three minutes, and left him to get some sleep on the couch in my office."

Jordan smiled a little. "Thanks, Garret. I'll take him to my place after my shift. I should have forced him to do this sooner."

Garret grunted. He wasn't about to assign blame. Too many people were involved, and Woody should have known better. Garret looked at Jordan, trying to say what he needed without giving too much away. She needed to know that Woody needed care and support, but she_couldn't_ know about the threats. It would just send her off on one of those crazy quests of hers. "This case is personal for him."

She nodded. "Yeah, but I don't really know why. Crimes against kids and cops really bother him, but... Maybe it's just the senselessness of it all. All of these men were doing what they could to make the world a better place. _That's_ why they died. This killer hates men who care. Just like Woody."

Garret pretended to ignore her comment, hoping that Jordan herself wouldn't notice what she'd said and realize that Woody was being harassed by the killer. "Try and remind him that he can't help anyone unless he helps himself."

"Will do," Jordan promised. "Hey, any chance I might be able to get off early to put our favorite detective in a real bed after a real meal?"

Garret looked at her. "Have you checked the backlog lately?"

She grimaced, then shrugged. "Hey, it was worth a shot."

"Get to work, Jordan. Oh, and have the switchboard reroute my calls. I don't want anything waking him up until you do," Garret ordered. She gave him a thumbs up sign as she headed to the front. He shook his head and went into the lab. "What have you got, Nigel?"

"Other than proof that we're dealing with a complete psychopath, not much. No fingerprints, no fibers. A generic knife sold in packs of a dozen at all local discount stores. The chocolates are made by a local confectionery but they made over fifteen hundred of these for Valentine's Day alone. The twisted part, other than that our psychopath somehow knows Woody's favorite chocolates, is the knife stabbed through a cherry filled morsel so that it appears bloody," Nigel stretched next to his computer. "Sorry, Dr. M."

"Not your fault, Nigel. This guy is careful. Smart. Obsessed. And dangerous," Garret assured him. "But we'll get him. Wait a minute. You said the chocolates were Woody's favorites? How do you know that?"

Nigel shrugged. "Jordan."

"Never mind," Garret muttered. He really didn't want to know. "I'm guessing that these boxes don't come prepackaged to Woody's tastes. How many boxes would it take to make them like this?"

Nigel looked at the box again. "Give me a few minutes."

"All right. I'll check with Bug on the autopsy."

* * *

Maybe it was just that nothing would stay in his stomach, but two minutes after he finished the food. Dr. Macy gave him, just as he would have fallen asleep, he had to lose it all. Woody didn't figure it was worth trying to sleep again. He'd go check with Roberts again, see what they'd learned about his apartment. Woody would feel better if Nigel was looking over his apartment, but the morgue staff was tied up with the murders. 

Jordan was in autopsy, or at least Woody hoped she was. He had to get past her and Garret while avoiding anyone else that might try to stop him. It was a good thing Lily wasn't there.

"Afternoon, Detective Hoyt," Emmy called cheerfully as she processed some paperwork. At least Dr. Macy hadn't made his bed rest order public knowledge. She didn't even realize that he hadn't answered as he went down to the parking garage.

Roberts should know something about the break-in, even if it was only to confirm Woody's suspicion. _She _was behind this. The Bleeding Heart Murderer.

He wasn't sure when he decided the killer was a woman. He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was the chocolates, but they could have been sent by a man. Woody couldn't explain it. His brain hadn't really been working in days.

He stopped at his car and cursed under his breath as he realized that Jordan still had his car keys. He knew he'd put a key in a box somewhere under the Charger, only he couldn't remember if it was on the driver or passenger side. He reached under the wheel well and got a grimy hand for his trouble.

Crossing around the back of the Charger, he reached under the other wheel. A swish of air rushed past him, and if he hadn't lost his balance, his head would have a hole the size of a tire iron. Instead, his car did.

The Charger was too low to crawl under, and he wasn't fast enough to avoid the tire iron again. His kidney took the blow, and he doubled over, writhing, before he summoned the will to back away. He heard Jordan's voice teasing him. _Did you get beat up by a girl again?_

He pushed himself back to his feet, finally seeing his attacker. Five-three, hundred ten pounds, she _couldn't_ be the murderer. Her victims outweighed her by at least eighty pounds, some over a hundred. She was even wearing stiletto heels. The tire iron was unmistakable, but he couldn't believe she had done it to him. To _any_ of them. "Detective Hoyt."

Her words were cold. Venomous. Like he would have expected. He wrapped an arm around his kidney. The car was between them now, a shield. "You...can't...be..."

"They tell me I have the strength of the devil," she told him. "But no one will believe it of you. _No one._ No jury would ever believe that I kidnapped and killed fifteen men. Sixteen, including you."

He shook his head and reached for his gun. It wasn't there. He swallowed hard, remembering taking the gun out of its holster during his misguided attempt at sleep. He was an idiot, thinking only of his comfort. And Garret had his cellphone. Woody couldn't have made this any easier for her. Dizzy from the pain and lack of food, he stumbled into another car. He heard her stilettos tapping towards him. He had to get up, to get out of here, but he couldn't seem to move.

"Usually the tire iron is enough," she told him, "but I knew you wouldn't come without a fight, which is why I put so much pressure on you. I called, like any concerned citizen, several times, to press for a resolution of this case. I know your type, Detective. You're not sleeping. You haven't eaten. And you're weak."

He tried to come up with some sort of reply to her words, but he couldn't find any. His head hurt as badly as his kidneys, and he was having trouble breathing. He wished he hadn't listened to Jordan when she insisted that he take the flu vaccination. Her logic said that cops needed the vaccine as much as children and the elderly, but with his luck, he'd been one of the few that caught the flu from the vaccine. He'd been getting over it when he was called to the Brown murder. Easy target.

He pulled himself up the Mazda by sheer force of will. She swung again, shattering the passenger window as he ducked, falling to the side. "I'm sure you'll be delightful company."

Her words taunted him as his hands futilely searched for purchase on the glass beneath him. Then the tire iron connected with his head, and he saw black.


	4. Careful What You Look For

**Soulless**  
******Chapter Four: Be Careful What You Look For  
**Rating: PG-13 (I think)  
**Word Count:** 1,642  
**Disclaimer:** I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan.  
**Summary:** A serial killer takes a twisted interest in a certain detective.  
**Pairing: **Woody/Jordan  
**Author's Note: **While my previous fics were more humorous than dramatic or suspenseful, this isn't. It's a pretty big divergence from the others. And my life is unbearably busy, so I won't be able to update as often as I have in the past.

Again I have to apologize for the lateness of this update. I've been sick off and on for the past couple of months and fighting writer's block isn't easy when one is also fighting a cold. So... Here's more... I doubt it was worth the wait. :(

* * *

**Be Careful What You Look For**

Jordan was practically skipping through the halls on her way to Garret's office. Her last three autopsies were all perfectly explainable deaths and while that normally would have bothered her, but tonight she was looking forward to a quiet evening taking care of Woody and assuring him that they were more than friends. It wouldn't be romantic, but she didn't need romantic. She needed Woody. Nigel was right. It was too long for this dance to go on.

She opened the door and stopped. The sight of Woody sleeping peacefully—-one that had gotten her through the day—-was not what she found. He was gone. His gun wasn't. He was.

"Woody!" she called, running towards the front. Emmy looked up, startled. "Emmy, have you seen Woody?"

"Detective Hoyt? He left a few hours ago. He was pretty distracted."

"Damn it," Jordan cursed, loud enough to make people jump. Garret came out of autopsy and looked at her.

"Jordan, what are you doing?"

She opened her mouth to answer as the elevator doors admitted Renee Walcott. "Where is he?"

"Who?" Garret asked, coming up to Jordan.

"Don't give me that. Where is Detective Hoyt? He's been avoiding me for hours, and when he does that, he's usually here, pretending to chase down a lead," Walcott said angrily.

Garret looked at Jordan. She shook her head. "He's not here."

"What?" Garret and Renee demanded at the same time.

Jordan twisted her hands. "Woody's not here. He's not in your office, Garret. And he left behind his gun."

Garret sighed. "I should have cuffed him to the damn couch. He's in no state to be walking around, let alone drive."

"I still have his keys," Jordan offered, "but he told me specifically that he was getting one of those key hider thingys."

Garret cursed. Renee looked at them both. "So, Hoyt _isn't_ here? Where would he go?"

"Probably to check on his apartment," Jordan offered. She didn't care if Woody got in trouble with Walcott. He deserved it for being so stupid and pushing himself so much.

Renee shook her head. "I just spoke to Roberts. He told me that only one thing was missing from Hoyt's apartment and it _was_ valuable. Apparently, it's a random burglary and not tied to the harassment he's been getting for the case. Roberts also said he hadn't seen Hoyt, and I threatened him enough to know he wasn't covering for Hoyt."

"Harassment?" Jordan demanded. "What kind of _harassment?"_

"Jordan, you--"

"No, I've been a good girl and toed the line. Now Woody has disappeared, and I want to know what the hell is going on," she insisted. Garret looked at Renee. She nodded reluctantly.

"Woody has been getting heart shaped boxes stabbed with a kitchen knife. Three so far, one for each victim since Gerald Brown," Garret explained. "Two went to his desk at homicide and were contaminated before we got to them. The other was at the scene today. Nigel's still trying to narrow down who could have purchased it. It's a long list."

"But it isn't even February," Jordan protested. "Shouldn't a bulk order get noticed?"

"Apparently, these chocolates keep better than most," Garret muttered.

"Okay, so the threats have given us nothing," Renee concluded. "That still doesn't answer my question."

"Emmy," Jordan called again, "did Woody leave alone?"

Emmy nodded. "He was by himself."

Jordan wanted to be relieved by this, but she wasn't. The elevators opened again. A messenger with a box went to Emmy, who pointed him to Jordan. Jordan signed off and ripped it open to Walcott's dismay.

"Oh, no," she whispered, running for the stairs. She kept running until she reached the parking level. Out of breath and unable to stop her mantra of _no, no, no,_ she realized she was in shock. She felt a hand on her shoulder and knew it was Garret.

"Jordan--"

"Garret, we have two _days_ to find him."

"You can't know that, Jordan."

"Yes, I do, Garret," she insisted, opening the hand that had been clasped around a square box. She had destroyed evidence by crumpling the note, but she hadn't wanted to believe it. She hadn't thought... Woody wouldn't have kept that ring... But he had, he had kept it, and now she was holding it in her hand. The ring was what was missing from Woody's apartment. The killer had taken it. Somehow, the killer had gotten close enough to realize who this was meant for... Maybe they could have taken it just to hurt him, but... They had to know Woody somehow... Had to have found out about him from someone, maybe even Woody himself.

_You should have taken this when you had the chance._

The worst part of it was that Jordan knew they were right.

* * *

"I'd say he was here," Nigel said, crouched next to the wheel rim of Woody's car, doing his best to pretend that the car belonged to someone else, someone he didn't know. "His hand was under the wheel, but he fell forward and the assailant missed him. Judging from this indentation, it was a metal object, probably the tire iron our killer favours, We may even get something from it, since we knew he doesn't clean it between victims."

Macy nodded, listening intently. Nigel pointed to more evidence. "The second time, the attacker didn't miss. Salivia here, probably from Woody... He backed around the car, using it for support. Looks like hew was on his feet for a bit, then... he fell back on whatever car was parked here--"

"The killers?" Macy interrupted.

Nigel nodded. "I'd assume so. No one else would just drive away after their window was broken. I'll analyze the glass, see if I can narrow down the manufacturer. He ducked the one that shattered the window, but he did go down. Blood on the ground is his, probably cut himself trying to get up again."

"But he didn't make it back up?"

Nigel shook his head. "No. We've got drag marks and a path through the glass... The killer stashed him in the trunk and drove off. Buy went to get the security tape, but judging from the angle of these camera, they missed the altercation."

"Maybe we'll get lucky," Macy said without much hope. They all knew that this bastard was good. He hadn't made any mistakes yet. "Just get me you can, Nigel."

"I will, Dr. M," Nigel promised, collecting his samples. "Uh...how is Jordan?"

Macy stopped. "She's in shock. Pretty bad. She's not even fighting to be a part of the investigation. Renee's with her. She called Lily, who's coming in."

"We've got to get this bastard," Nigel said, looking down at the broken glass.

"We will."

"In time?"

Macy didn't answer. Instead, he looked at Woody's car and the empty space next to it. "Any chance this was a woman?"

Nigel blinked. "Come again?"

"Something Woody said. Admittedly, he was out of it, but he referred to the killer as a 'she.'"

Nigel looked at the ground again. "Maybe... Just maybe..."

* * *

Consciousness was a funny thing.

In his case, a not particularly pleasant or amusing sort of funny. He felt like he'd gone through several wringers while hungover and drunk at the same time. He felt like he was dying, but he knew that his death awaited him at the end of a cheap knife, not his injuries or whatever drugs she'd given him or even his guilt.

In his defense, he'd never meant to betray Jordan. The Psycho Bitch already knew that he was involved with Jordan. She'd stalked him for the past two weeks, and he'd never noticed a damn thing. She knew his habits, and it had only taken a little bit of narcotic persuasion to get the whole story from him.

The she told him what she intended to do with the ring, leaving him screaming in protest, futilely pulling on the cuffs that chained his hands above his head. He'd passed out after a while, a mixed blessing.

He saw light coming in through the window. That meant daylight. Daylight meant he had a day left to live. A day that the Psycho Bitch would spend taunting Jordan and everyone at the morgue...

Somehow, it didn't matter that he would die. Granted, he wasn't looking forward to it, but he only seemed to care about what it would do to Jordan. _Jordan, I am so sorry, so incredibly sorry._

"Pity for your pretty girlfriend, Detective?" the psycho was back, holding a glass of wine and balancing in precarious heels again.

"You're celebrating early," he observed. "I have a day left."

"Oh, and who said I would stick to my _modus operandi_ with you, Detective?" she asked snidely.

He swallowed hard. He hadn't expected this. He knew hew had a day to live, but as far as deaths went, a knife to the heart was a quick, relatively painless death. Not like what she was now promising. Somehow, he didn't think she was here to kill him. Hurt him. Torture him. Mock him. But not kill him. Not yet.

"Why am I different?" he asked. "Why not just kill me like all the others?"

She handed him the wine. "Drink."

He shook his head. He wasn't going along with whatever sick game she wanted to play this time. She grabbed his hair and smacked his head into the pipe. His mouth opened involuntarily, and she poured the wine in, letting it overflow and dribble down his chin. He choked on it, swallowing against his will.

His head grew fuzzy. He felt sick again. He didn't know what she'd given him. He didn't want to know. His eyes blurred, heavy with a fatigue he hadn't felt a minute ago. A sedative, maybe worse...

"_Why?"_ he whispered again as it all went black.


	5. What You Get in Return

**Soulless**  
******Chapter Five: What You Get in Return  
**Rating: PG-13 (I think)  
**Word Count:** 1,040  
**Disclaimer:** I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan.  
**Summary:** A serial killer takes a twisted interest in a certain detective.  
**Pairing: **Woody/Jordan  
**Author's Note: **While my previous fics were more humorous than dramatic or suspenseful, this isn't. It's a pretty big divergence from the others. And my life is unbearably busy, so I won't be able to update as often as I have in the past.

So... Dance and cheer for joy (oh, celebrate with me, just a little) because I have another update. In hardly any time at all. And my life is in crisis. But here's more. Enjoy. :)

* * *

**What You Get in Return**

Forty-Eight hours.

In one way they were an eternity—waiting, hoping, _praying_ for some miracle, some clue, the break in the case that would lead to Woody's safe return. And yet time was too short, passed too quickly, results proving too vague.

"If Woody was right," Garret addressed his tired, overworked morgue staff and the detectives that now headed the taskforce, "and the killer _is_ a woman, we may have a suspect."

"After careful study, I have narrowed down the glass from the broken window to a batch manufactured for Mazda Miatas. The security cameras—thank you, Buggles—picked up a woman in a Mazda Miata leaving the garage," Nigel explained, passing around the grainy photo. "Unfortunately, we were only able to track her movements until she got on the interstate and were unable to get any better pictures or more than three possible numbers or letters from her license plate."

"So...she took Woody out of town?" Lily asked with doubt in her voice. She wasn't the only one who doubted the well-groomed woman was their demented killer.

Garret shook his head. "We think she knew enough to confuse the issue. She obscured the license plate and led us _away_ from her real location. She's still in Boston. Still in her ten block radius."

"I've got statements from witnesses here," Seely said, taking out his notes and Woody's as well. "We've got several who remember a Miata and others that remember a woman. According to one description, she's hot, blonde, maybe 5'1", wearing dark glasses, nice clothes, and fancy jewelry. Sorry guys, but that can't be the killer. An accomplice, maybe, but she didn't do it."

"Not in those heels anyway," Santana muttered.

Garret ignored them. They were tired. Everyone was punchy.Everyone except Jordan. She was staring off into space, frustrated by everyone's lack of progress, traumatized by the taunting notes the killer had sent to her. Now she was getting the chocolates, one box every twelve hours, each with a message designed to demoralize them. It surprised them all that it was working on Jordan. They should have angered her into action. Instead, she seemed frozen.

"Accomplice or killer, it doesn't really matter," Garret insisted. "The point is, that woman knows where Woody is. And that means we have to find her. Fast."

"I've been going over the evidence again," Nigel began, "but I haven't found anything yet."

Bug nodded in agreement. He glanced at Jordan. Lily bit her lip, concerned.

"We'll put an APB out on this woman, try and get a match from the partial plate," Santana said.

"We'll also take the picture around to our witnesses and the victim's family," Carver said, rising. Her fellow detectives followed her, Seelymuttering under his breath. Nigel groaned and left with Bug. They were too tired to argue. This damn case was tearing Garret's people apart, Jordan most of all.

He crossed the room to her, touching her shoulder. "We'll find him."

"I'm not so sure," Jordan whispered.

Emmy knocked on the door. "Dr. Macy? They found a body."

* * *

"I want this bitch," Macy muttered irritably. "I want her found, and I want her found _now."_

Nigel looked down at the Bleeding Heart Killer's sixteenth victim. A part of him was grateful that he wasn't looking down at Woody right now, but the rest of him wondered where the bloody hell he was. Was Woody still alive? Did this body mean that the killer had seen fit to keep Woody alive, or was it another of her games?

"Get me everything you can, Nigel," Garret said. "Look for any signs that he might have been held with Woody. And anything that can help us find her."

"Already on it, Dr. M," Nigel said, sounding more chipper than he felt. It was hard _not _ to be negative. The Bleeding Heart Killer had gone undetected for years. She was _good_ at this. Dr. Macy kept saying that they were _better,_ but it didn't feel like it when Woody was missing and Jordan was practically a basketcase.

Nigel took careful photos, walking around the body of a man, perhaps fifty, with a resemblance to Saint Nick that would have been charming if he wasn't dead. Macy had moved off to use his phone, calling Lily to break the news to Jordan. Maybe it would have been better, to know for sure, but...

"Who are you, Chris Kringle?" Nigel muttered as he prepped the body for transport. "And do you know my friend Woodrow?"

He went to open the van doors and caught a glimpse of someone in the tinted window. Blonde, petite, with darkglasses and a soulless smile. He turned around, and she was gone.

"Dr. Macy!" Nigel called when he could speak again. "Dr. M! She's here. I saw her. She's here."

"What? This is a secure crime scene," Macy protested. He grabbed the nearest uniformed officer. "Get Detective Carver over here. And start looking for a woman, blonde, with dark glasses—"

"Red dress suit, 'bout thirty, I'd guess," Nigel added quickly.

"No one got by us, Dr. Macy," the cop insisted.

"Just do it. Now."

Nigel looked at the ground where he had seen her standing. She had been there, he was certain of that, but now that he looked, he saw no trace of her. She would have been... Yes, there. But the ground was soft, and there was no impression. Nothing.

"Nigel?" Macy asked, coming up behind him.

"I didn't imagine it," Nigel insisted. "I didn't."

* * *

She smiled to herself as she put the Miata in gear. Fools, blind fools all of them. They would search and search but they would never find what they were looking for. She would not give them Hoyt's body. She would not give them closure. That she would not allow.

This was how it was supposed to be, the way she wanted it. She had taken from them; she would not give back. She took Detective Hoyt, but she took more than one man. She took hope, she took peace, and she took the future from Jordan Cavanaugh.

She smiled grimly. No, she would never give any of it back.

She would leave them wondering, forever hoping, forever tormented.


	6. One Way or Another

**Soulless**  
******Chapter Six: One Way or Another  
**Rating: PG-13 (I think)  
**Word Count:** 1,581  
**Disclaimer:** I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan.  
**Summary:** A serial killer takes a twisted interest in a certain detective.  
**Pairing: **Woody/Jordan  
**Author's Note: **While my previous fics were more humorous than dramatic or suspenseful, this isn't. It's a pretty big divergence from the others. And my life is unbearably busy, so I won't be able to update as often as I have in the past.

Finally had some brainstorms tonight for this, so I took the best parts of the stuff I'd written for this chapter and put it together. Hope it came out okay. Oh, yeah, and I don't own the lyrics to the song Jordan quotes.

* * *

**One Way or Another**

Operation Jordan Watch was in full effect.

She knew they all thought she was on the verge of a breakdown. They were probably right. She stared at the clock, watching the minutes tick by, unable to see past the blinking double zeros of the imaginary countdown clock in her mind. The deadline had past. It was over. He was gone.

He had been _gone _for two days. Had been _dead_ perhaps for three. They had jumped at every phone call, held their breath until every body was identified. One after another, the dead were brought back to the morgue. None of them were Woody.

Bug was on his way back in with another body. Someone had already called Lily. Lily had already told Jordan. It wasn't him. Again.

Jordan knew that she had received at least three messages from the killer. She knew that they had come, but she hadn't actually read them. She had seen Garret and the other arguing over them. Jordan was aware of more than they realized. She saw and heard everything, even if she didn't react.

Someone had tried to get her to eat once every four hours. She didn't, but that didn't stop them from trying. She would drink the water they left her long after it was warm, the coffee after it was cold. She couldn't taste anything, so it wasn't like it mattered to her.

She hadn't felt anything since Woody disappeared.

She wasn't sure she would ever feel anything again.

She'd never gotten over her mother's death. Of course, that was tangled up in the lies that everyone kept telling her, in her father, her brother, in Malden, in a quest for justice that would never be satisfied.

She would not let that happen again. She would not let Woody's killer go free. She knew that they could find this woman. They _could, _and they _would._

She stood up and walked out of the conference room, past Nigel, who breathed, "Sweet Nancy, look who is back among the living."

"Jordan," Garret called, catching up to her. "Jordan, wait. Let Lily take you home."

Jordan shook her head. "No, Garret. I've played along with her game too long. I let her hold all the cards, and I _let her win._ No more. I won't sit around waiting, wondering."

"What do you mean, Jordan?"

"He's dead. She killed him," Jordan insisted. "And I will make her pay."

* * *

"We look like asses," Seely said, coming up behind Jordan as she made her way down the short hill, carefully trying to keep her balance and preserve the scene.

"Newsflash, Seely, you _are_ an ass," she muttered as she rubbed her hands together, trying to ignore the chill of the early morning. It might only have been five in the morning, and she might have pulled a double, but she was glad to be out on a call for a change. She'd gotten nothing but hospital transfers and vehicular deaths for the past three weeks. If it could be related to the Bleeding Heart Killer, it went to someone else.

If Jordan was the one who found the Bleeding Heart Killer, she swore that they'd never find that woman's body. Not, of course, that it made up for the pain the bitch had caused everyone, but she _would_ make Woody's killer pay.

"I mean it, Cavanaugh," Seely went on. "We don't need the FBI dicking with our case."

She shrugged. She wasn't happy with any of them. The APB, the media coverage, the taskforce, none of it had helped any, and everyone had shut her out of the case. "Two months. No leads. No arrests. Just twenty dead men, including one cop."

Seely looked at her. "There isn't a single person on the taskforce who hasn't busted his ass to find this bitch. And you know what, Cavanaugh? Every damn one of us wishes he was still here to do this."

She held up a hand. "I know, okay? Just don't expect me to be happy when Woody's killer is still free, and we can't do a damn thing about it."

"You really think the feds can get something that we can't?" Seely demanded.

Jordan sighed. She studied the overturned dirt and braced her nose. Whatever this was, it had been dead for a _long_ time. "No. This case is nothing to the feds. It's everything to us. Woody was a friend to us—_more_ than a friend to me—and _that_ matters. He was doing everything he could to solve this case, working too hard, not sleeping or eating... That won't matter to anyone else. To them, he's just victim number sixteen. An _unproven _ victim at that."

Seely cursed. "You think those assholes are going to say she didn't take him? That he just left because he couldn't hack it?"

"Not in front of a bunch of punchy, trigger happy cops like you and the taskforce, I hope," Jordan said, bending down next to the body. "What do we have?"

"Usual story. Early morning jogger with her dog. Dog uncovered... this."

Jordan looked over the body. A man, she'd judge him to be about fifty, allowing for decomposition, but what caught her eye was the object jutting out of his chest. A knife. _Cheap. Comes in packs, available at any discount store. Impossible to trace. _ She pushed the thought aside. She _might_ have a connection to the Bleeding Heart Killer, but she wouldn't say anything. She _wanted _this case, even more so if it _was_ the killer.

"So...got anything for me?" Seely asked.

"Well, for starter's, unless he somehow grew a knife in the middle of his chest, our smelly friend here was murdered," she answered, getting back to her feet. "He's been here for a while, though. Decomposition is pretty far advanced."

"Great," Seely muttered. "Just what I need. Another murder. Like I'm not busting my ass on the taskforce, I've got seven other open cases and now _this._ You think you'll get anything from Mr. Stinky?"

_More than you'd guess,_ Jordan thought. If this was the killer's victim, there was a reason why he had been dumped here. All the other victims had been returned to his family, all but this one and Woody. Why? Did the killer not want this body connected to her? Had she struck too close to home? Made a mistake?

"You know, I thought it would be bad working with you again, Cavanaugh," Seely said. "Figured you'd be a nutcase or something. But you seem to be holding up well."

"This?" Jordan snorted. "This is an act, Seely. I'm not okay. I _can_ do my job, but I am _not_ okay."

* * *

"They took it."

Jordan looked up from "Mr. Stinky" and over at Nigel, who had just burst into autopsy two like a madman. Then again, it _was_ Nigel. She set down her scalpel. "They took what? And who are _they?"_

"They. Them," Nigel said, causing her to roll her eyes. She was supposed to be the conspiracy nut, after all. Still, Nigel gave her a run for her money. "The government. The feds. They took everything."

"So... The FBI has all the evidence in the Bleeding Heart murders?" Jordan finished. _Almost all the evidence. _ She had already confirmed that the blade in her John Doe's chest was the same as the ones the killer used, but she hadn't mentioned it to anyone, and she was glad she hadn't, or this body and all its clues would be in the hands of some ignorant Federal prick.

"They do. Can you believe it?" Nigel asked. "I do all the work, and now they're second-guessing it."

"Have they gotten to the part where they start looking for Woody's hideout for the past twenty-five days?" Jordan asked with a false smile.

"Yes, they have, and no, they haven't found anything," Bug said as he came into the room. "Because we all know there's nothing to find."

"Woody didn't run. He was _taken._" Jordan was glad she'd already put down the scalpel. "Did those idiots even _read_ the threats? The killer said she took him, and she wasn't giving him back."

"Yes, well, try telling that to the FBI," Bug muttered. "Those ignorant asses not only don't believe that Woody was taken by the killer, they don't believe we have a real suspect."

Jordan felt a smile tugging at her lips. She looked down. "I guess we just have to concentrate on the cases we _do _have."

"What do you mean?" Nigel asked suspiciously.

"Well, I need an analysis of this knife, for one thing," she said, feigning ignorance as she handed the bagged murder weapon to him.

"What is this?" Bug demanded. "Jordan, do you know what this is?"

"A knife that killed my John Doe?" she supplied. "What? Is there a reason why this knife means something to you two?"

"Hell, yes," Nigel said. He rushed out of the room, Bug on his heels. Jordan turned back to the body, humming.

"_One way...or another... I'm gonna get you,"_ she whispered, singing along, feeling optimistic for the first time since Woody disappeared. She lifted the heart out of the body and smiled as she saw the pacemaker.

So much for John Doe.


	7. We'll Meet Again

**Soulless**  
******Chapter Seven: We'll Meet Again  
**Rating: PG-13 (I think)  
**Word Count:** 1,488  
**Disclaimer:** I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan.  
**Summary:** A serial killer takes a twisted interest in a certain detective.  
**Pairing: **Woody/Jordan  
**Author's Note: **While my previous fics were more humorous than dramatic or suspenseful, this isn't. It's a pretty big divergence from the others. And my life is unbearably busy, so I won't be able to update as often as I have in the past.

I may be the author, but I saw this one coming a mile away. :P Eek, my plot is soo predictable.

* * *

**We'll Meet Again**

"All right, love," Nigel began as he walked back into autopsy two as Jordan was finishing up the autopsy on her John Doe. She'd expected more of a lecture about this body and keeping everyone from knowing about it, but apparently Nigel and Bug were with her on this one. It felt good. "Our mysterious man is, in fact, one Harold Quince."

"Quince?" Jordan asked, frowning. "How do I know that name?"

"Because Harold Quince caused quite a stir when he left his beautiful wife for an underage mistress," Nigel went on, always up-to-date on social scandals, though this one was a bit old, if she remembered correctly. "His wife was a model. Should still _be_ a model. She may be fifty years old, but—"

"She looks thirty," Jordan finished, remembering more now. "Apparently, that was still too old for Mr. Quince here. But if Quince left his wife for his mistress, he wasn't a bleeding heart. Most of them were considered irreproachable saints. Not him. How did he end up a victim of our killer?"

"I'm guessing no one dug deep enough," Bug muttered under his breath. "Look at the widow Quince."

"Damn," Jordan muttered, staring at the picture of a blond socialite wearing dark glasses and expensive jewelry. "That's her. It's her. She's famous, and no one even bothered to _suggest_ her?"

"Remember, love, our description was of a woman about thirty. People who knew her, even if they know she looks younger, aren't going to think 'thirty' about her. And not everyone believes our small woman _is_ the killer, after all," Nigel patted Jordan's shoulder gently. "Plus, Mrs. Quince is chauffeured_, _not a driver herself. Supposedly, she never got a license."

"Or she has one in another name," Bug said. "I think that Mr. Quince's young mistress is probably back at that crime scene."

"That's it," Jordan agreed, a feeling of triumph washing over her. "It makes perfect sense. She makes up a story about her husband leaving her. Obviously, he'd take some of their money if he was going to keep his mistress in style, but he didn't, not really. _She_ used it. It's how she bought the knives, the chocolates, everything we couldn't trace back to anyone. The car is probably in the girl's name."

"Bingo," Nigel said, his fingers stopping their rapid dance across the keyboard. "One Miata, licensed to Tara Winters. It even has the magic numbers on its plate."

"We got her," Jordan smiled grimly. "We finally got her."

* * *

When she heard that a body had been found where she had left her idiot of a husband, she knew that it was only a matter of time before they identified him as Harold Quince. The pacemaker. If she had only thought to remove it... But that was a regret she could not afford. And she was not a butcher. She might kill, but she did not dissect. She left that for people like Detective Hoyt's Dr. Cavanaugh. _They_ were the butchers, not her.

If only Harry had not been so greedy. She hadn't cared about his girls, though each one seemed younger than the last, ending with Tara, who was just sixteen, but no, he had to stick his nose into her business. He was looking to _her_ financial records, interfering in _her _companies. He suspected her of something, had pushed too much. Maybe he wanted a divorce, though he'd never tried before. She had thought she scared him too much for him to go against her, but she had been wrong. And she _hated _being wrong.

It was simple, then. He'd had to die. But not so that anyone would notice. Tara provided the opportunity. What she had wanted was money and fame. She'd been the one to tell everyone about her affair with Harry. And all it took was a few more rumors for everyone to believe that Harry had finally run off with one of his bimbos.

Still he caused her problems. Now they would come for her. She had only had this particular gentleman for a day, not her standard two, but it couldn't be helped. She had no time for finesse, for real enjoyment. It was time to clean up the loose ends.

She stabbed him quickly, watching his last breath gurgle in his throat. She kissed her fingers and touched them to her good luck charm one last time before she took the corpse with her. She drove north, towards a lake property owned by one of Harry's friends.

She rigged the Miata to drive itself into the lake and watched as it went under, the body and all the evidence in the trunk going under with it. She smiled a little as it finally disappeared.

She walked up to the road. She would wait for her driver here. As she stepped out on to the gravel, she heard a voice. "Mrs. Quince? Boston P.D. We'd like you to come with us."

* * *

"She's definitely a cool one," Renee Walcott murmured as she watched Delinda Quince from behind the two way mirror. The other woman was sitting prim and proper, every strand of hair in place, every wrinkle smoothed out, every nail perfectly polished and clean. She had no twitches, no nervous habits. Hell, her lipstick didn't even come off when she sipped her coffee like she was at a damn tea party.

"She thinks she can get away with it," Jordan agreed. "She doesn't think anyone will believe us."

"You have something to say, Dr. Cavanaugh?" Renee asked, turning towards her. The M.E.'s lips curved a little, but she shook her head. "Perhaps that the jury will have a hard time buying what the D.A.'s office didn't accept when they first heard it, either?"

"Maybe something like that," Cavanaugh finally agreed.

"We got the car. The body. The tire iron," Renee said, looking back at the glass. "This woman is going down for murder. She's not coming out, whatever doubts anyone has about her size or age won't be enough. Garret already told me he matched the fingerprints on the tire iron to her."

"What are we waiting for, then?" Jordan asked. "A signed confession?"

Renee snorted. "We won't get that from her. She might try for the insanity plea, but she's not insane. She's a sociopath. She knew what she was doing all along, and she enjoyed it."

"Yep," Jordan agreed. "She is one sick puppy. So you won't deal?"

Renee laughed. "With her? No. She killed over twenty men, including one of Boston's best officers. We may have had our differences, Cavanaugh, but Hoyt was a good officer who deserved better than this."

"That's why I'm here, isn't it?" Jordan looked back at the woman's taunting smile. "She won't confess, and she won't even tell us where his body is."

"You're here," Renee corrected, "because she _asked _for you. I'm not interested in catering to her whims, but you have a point. She won't tell us anything. But she might give something away to you."

That was all the permission Cavanaugh needed. She left the observation room and went into the interrogation room. "Where is he?"

"No preamble, I see," Quince's smile was twisted. Evil. "I told you before, Dr. Cavanaugh. You're not getting him back. How has it been? Waiting and wondering? Do you still believe you'll find him alive?"

"I stopped playing your game," Cavanaugh stared the woman down. "I accepted that you killed him. That you would never surrender his body, not while you were free. But now we have all the cards. You got sloppy. All that evidence in that trunk, just waiting for us to pin it on you. So if you want any sort of deal, maybe you should consider telling us where you left his body?"

Quince laughed. "And give up my good luck charm? I don't think so."

"I don't buy that. You didn't know Woody when you started your killing spree," Cavanaugh insisted. "Why keep hiding him? Maybe you'll get a nice padded room and doctors you can con into thinking you're rehabilitated."

"Why? Dr. Cavanaugh, the look on your face is answer enough," Quince said. She laughed again. "I should have thought you were above this. Above caring. You certainly gave _him_ that impression."

Renee watched with sympathy as Cavanaugh floundered under that attack. She was pale, and she shook a little. "What would you know about it?"

"Oh, much more than you think," Quince continued to smile mercilessly. "We had lots of time to become acquainted in the last three weeks, after all. I know everything there is to know about Woodrow Wilson Hoyt. And a good deal about you, Dr. Cavanaugh."

"Wwwhat?" Jordan stammered. "What do you mean by that?"

Quince's smile grew wider, and, if possible, more evil. "Your precious detective is alive, Dr. Cavanaugh. Such a pity you will never find him in time."


	8. You Have a Place in Life

**Soulless**  
******Chapter Eight: You Have a Place in Life  
**Rating: PG-13 (I think)  
**Word Count:** 1,251  
**Disclaimer:** I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan. Well, I do, but I don't possess them yet. (Curse the slowness of mail. :P )  
**Summary:** A serial killer takes a twisted interest in a certain detective.  
**Pairing: **Woody/Jordan  
**Author's Note: **While my previous fics were more humorous than dramatic or suspenseful, this isn't. It's a pretty big divergence from the others. And my life is unbearably busy, so I won't be able to update as often as I have in the past.

frowns I seem to have given readers of this fic an impression that I never meant to give... I don't see it so much myself (but then again, I didn't intend it that way, so maybe that's why I'm blind?) shrugs I never really meant for the killer to have a rhyme or a reason. She is soulless, devoid of any morality. That's all.

Oh... And I don't think I really answered any questions this time. Not sure if that makes me evil or just annoying. :P

* * *

**You Have a Place in Life**

"Why should we believe her?" Nigel demanded. "For three weeks, she's been telling us that Woody's dead and we'll never find his body. Now she says that he's alive, and we have to find him quickly? I'm tired of being her little lapdog who has to jump when she says."

"We can't afford _not_ to," Garret cut in quietly. "Yes, this woman has harassed and taunted our office for over a month. She has made us a part of her game, and whether we like it or not, we're still playing. Because if there is a chance, even a remote one, that Woody _is_ alive, we have to do everything we can to bring him home."

Garret watched his staff carefully. He hated giving them false hope, but he knew that he was right. If Woody was out there, alive, then they had to find him. If all they were going to find was a body, that was what they had to do. It might not be what they _wanted_, but at least they would have closure. Jordan would have closure, and that was what she really needed.

Nigel nodded wearily. He had been up all night working a double before they arrested the Quince woman, and he would be here until it was all over. There was no point in telling him to go. None of them could. None of them would. "I'm sorry, Dr. M."

"Don't be, Nigel," Garret told him. Nigel smiled slightly and shook his head. Garret turned towards Bug, who had just reentered the room, a paper in hand and triumphant smile on his face. "What's that, Bug?"

"We were finally able to track down a series of dummy corporations to one owned by Harold Quince, which as we now know, is really owned by _Mrs._ Quince. And this company owns several commercial buildings in the greater Boston area, including three in the ten block radius where we believe Quince was taking her victims," Bug explained.

"Call Seely," Garret said as he started out of the room. He grabbed his own phone and hit the speed dial for Renee Walcott. As he listened to it ring, he told his people, "I want those buildings searched, now. Preserve the crime scene if you find it, but I want us to focus on finding Woody. Or his body."

There was a click, and Walcott picked up. "Renee. I need you to get me search warrants on buildings owned by Quince."

"_You'll get them," _ Renee promised. _"Have you seen Cavanaugh?"_

"I sent Lily over to her," Garret said, frowning. "What, she's not there?"

"No, Garret. Ms. Lebowski is here, but no Cavanaugh. No one has seen her since she left Quince earlier. She was pretty shaken up, but she asked for a minute alone, and I gave it to her. I'm guessing that was a mistake."

Garret cursed. "Damn it, Jordan. Where are you?"

* * *

Despite Quince's claim that Woody was, in fact, alive, Jordan felt like she was trespassing on a shrine as she entered his office. The precinct hadn't reassigned it yet. Everyone was still waiting for the official word—a _body—_to declare him dead. Another detective worked his caseload, but this office was still _his._ His shirts in the bottom left hand drawer, his photos on the desk, notes scribbled down in his handwriting. She lifted the top sticky note and smiled slightly. _Call Jordan. NOT the same place again._

It was funny. She even liked _arguing_ with him.

She sat down gingerly, silently apologizing to the ghost the room seemed to harbor as she booted up the computer and waited impatiently for it to work.

"_Why are you doing this?" Jordan demanded when she found her voice again. "Why me? What did I do to you? I don't even know you."_

_Quince snorted indelicately. "You think this was about you, Dr. Cavanaugh? That is where you are wrong. It was never about you. It wasn't even about him."_

_Jordan stared at her. No one was that heartless. There had to be some reason for all of this. "I don't believe you."_

"_Torment yourself if you like," Quince grinned again sadistically. "But the truth is, it could have been anyone who held the door open for me that day. It happened to be him."_

_Stunned, Jordan shook her head. None of this made sense. The taunts, the threats. They seemed personal. Quince was trying to claim that they weren't. "_That _was why you chose him?"_

"_He was nice," Quince explained. "I hate people who are nice."_

"_You singled Woody out, harassed him, kidnapped him, possibly killed him...because he opened a door for you?" _

"_Naive people have no place in this world, Dr. Cavanaugh. Haven't you seen that by now? I have. I know my place in the world. It is a shame no one else does."_

Her place. That was what Jordan was looking for now. Ten blocks. Six condemned buildings. But only one scheduled to be demolished tomorrow. That was it. It had to be. Even if Woody _wasn't _alive, Jordan knew that Quince _didn't_ want his body found.

Jordan wrote down the address and rushed to her car. She drove through the city, heedless of the traffic surrounding her, oblivious to the shouts and honking of horns. She had to get there, now.

She parked her car in front of the building. She stared up at it for a moment. How had people missed a red Miata zipping in and out of here? This was not a neighborhood anyone would take a decent car into, not a place they would go alone. She shouldn't be here alone, but she hadn't wanted them to try and stop her. Not this time. She'd gone along with their banning her from the case before Woody was taken, and she shouldn't have. She should have fought them every step of the way. Maybe she couldn't have changed it too much. But she would have felt a hell of a lot better right now.

She slammed the door shut on the car, hearing the echo in the faulty steel of the building's frame. This was a deathtrap. No wonder it had been condemned. Still, she didn't have a choice.

She made her way carefully through the debris and rubble. The dirt didn't seem to have been disturbed recently. Maybe she was wrong about this. She should turn around and go back to her car, to a safe position, and call Garret.

She didn't stop. She pushed past a closed door, hearing rats or something worse scurrying away from her. "Hello?"

A thunk. That was not a rat.

Or, if it was, it was a _damn_ big one. She shuddered a little and wrapped her arms around herself as she stepped over a broken pallet. "Hello? Is someone here?"

She stumbled over a broken board in the floor and saw light where it shouldn't be. A sliver, just enough to be from a small crack in what seemed to be a sealed room. She studied the wall, running her hands over it until she found a gap and started to pry it free. The nails held tight. This was new, even if the rest of the building was collapsing.

Wedging a piece of wood in the gap, she pulled the panel free and light from the exposed roof flooded her eyes. She blinked a few times to adjust.

Her mouth fell open in a half-scream. "Oh, god. Woody."


	9. Time Heals All Wounds

**Soulless**  
******Chapter Nine: Time Heals All Wounds  
**Rating: PG-13 (I think)  
**Word Count:** 2,351  
**Disclaimer:** I own Crossing Jordan. Um, right. That was a lie. I don't own anything. Except my own insanity. I can't even claim to own DVDs for Crossing Jordan. Wait, I do... I can only claim season 1, though. Pity.  
**Summary:** A serial killer takes a twisted interest in a certain detective.  
**Pairing: **Woody/Jordan  
**Author's Note: **While my previous fics were more humorous than dramatic or suspenseful, this isn't. It's a pretty big divergence from the others. And my life is unbearably busy, so I won't be able to update as often as I have in the past.

Ending stories has never been my strong point. Starting them is fun, and I have a lot of starts and very few ends. Still, I worked hard to make this chapter a fitting end with pretty good closure, at least I think so. :) Well, it is kind of sappy...

* * *

**Time Heals All Wounds**

"Detective Hoyt, do you really expect us to believe that this woman—this _petite _lady—was able to incapacitate you, a man who outweighs her by at least fifty pounds, a _trained_ police officer, and that she took you hostage and held you for over three weeks?" the high priced defense attorney demanded. His voice was full of disdain and his insinuations caused snickers in the courtroom.

Woody cleared his throat. Even now, months after his release, he found talking difficult, painful. His therapist insisted that it was psychosomatic, but Woody didn't care. He still felt it. She had forced a tube down his throat and restrained him so that every time he spoke or screamed—and she had made _sure_ he screamed—it hurt. She had wanted him to scream; she just didn't want anyone to hear him, didn't want him found. His original statement had been written, _had_ to be written, not spoken.

He wished he didn't have to speak right now.

"She used a tire iron," Woody said softly. "I was unarmed. The first time she hit me, it knocked th wind out of me. The second time, I was knocked unconscious. When I woke up, she had my hands cuffed around a metal pipe. A separate chain held my ankle to the floor. She also gave me drugs. And she wasn't very regular when it came to feeding me."

"So you've claimed, Detective," Batten pretended to agree. He was a master of courtroom theatrics, a smooth talker and dresser, distinguished yet still in his prime. "But I still have trouble seeing this little woman here doing all that to a strong, young man such as yourself"

Woody glared at him. He knew what Jordan would say to the bastard, but he couldn't summon the same anger. "Maybe looks are deceiving, Mr. Batten. Or maybe that was what your client was counting on all along. I know I didn't believe it when I first saw her. The tire iron changed my mind."

He heard laughter at that comment. The judge hit his gravel, calling for order. Batten reddened, but he continued on. "Detective Hoyt, did you know my client before your alleged abduction?"

"No."

"And my client has no ties to anyone else in your life, does she?"

Woody looked over the defendant. He had a hard time thinking of her as a person and not a monster. In his less lucid moments, she had seemed like a demon, a formless evil. Now she looked... normal. Human. Yet he knew that she wasn't. She had no soul. "She didn't know _any_ of her victims except her husband and his girlfriend. The others... She didn't know them. She didn't know me or anyone I knew. That was what she told me."

"So, why, Detective Hoyt, would she kill these men? Why would she abduct you?"

"I asked her that," Woody answered quietly. "I don't know how many times I asked her why. I never got an answer. Probably because there _isn't_ one. I _know_ she doesn't have a real motive, Mr. Batten. She just _did_ it. She wanted to, so she did."

"That's not a good reason," Batten said. "My client had no reason to commit the crimes that she is accused of, Detective. Yet you would have these twelve people believe that she did these things without any reason for them?"

"_Why?" he repeated desperately, talking around despite the tube. He wasn't sure he made any intelligible sound, but he knew that she knew what he was saying._

_She smiled evilly. "Do you really want an answer? Pity. I have none for you. Perhaps you think that it would be best if I held some grudge against you or your girlfriend. I don't. I thought nothing of your girlfriend at first. She was cynical. You were wholesome. I hate wholesome people. But it turns out that she cares. That is her misfortune."_

_He closed his eyes. He had stopped asking for deliverance a long time ago. He should stop asking her why as well. She leaned down and cupped his cheek in her hand. "I think it's time to bring you another friend. Don't you agree?"_

_He shook his head violently. Not another one. He couldn't stop her. She was going to kill another man, and he couldn't do anything to stop it._

"Detective Hoyt?"

Woody looked up at Batten. The man was waiting for an answer. He looked over at Jordan, who smiled encouragingly. She had been nothing but supportive since she found him. She had been there everyday through the weeks he spent in the hospital, had been there for him during his physical therapy, and she'd forced him to stick with the counseling when he had just wanted to ignore everything, pretend that _none _of it had happened. A large part of him had been numb, and he had wanted it to stay that way. Her anger, her strength, and her love had gotten him through it.

"What you are asking, Mr. Batten, is really whether they should believe me or you. When it comes to that, I am a police detective, sworn to uphold the law. You are a lawyer, willing to argue a case for whoever pays you enough," Woody found his answer at last. "I told the truth. I can't do anything more than that."

Batten turned towards the jury. After assessing them for a moment, he turned back to Woody. "Thank you, Detective. I have no further questions."

* * *

"Ding dong the witch is dead," Nigel chanted as he set the glasses down in front of everyone. Woody stared at his and pushed it away. Jordan grabbed it, took a gulp, and swallowed it down with a smile. He rolled his eyes as she put it back in front of him. He didn't need a drink taster, but she insisted on putting his fears to rest.

"Can we really say that?" Lily asked, a slight frown of disapproval on her face. "She was sentenced to life in prison, not given the death penalty."

"The point is, love, her reign of terror is finally over," Nigel said, taking his seat. He nudged Woody's shoulder, and Woody forced a smile.

"Good triumphed over evil _and_ their scummy, high priced lawyers," Jordan agreed, wrapping her hand through Woody's. He squeezed it back. His therapist kept promising him that in time this would be behind him, that he would no longer hate talking or look at every drink with suspicion. The nightmares and flashbacks would come less frequently, no longer waking Jordan every night. He wouldn't need her touch and words to feel safe.

His confidence in his abilities as a detective would return, he would no longer push himself too hard physically, trying to prove that he _wasn't_ weak. He wouldn't have to prove it, not to anyone, not even to himself. Eventually, it would all be over, practically forgotten.

But never completely. Too much had changed.

"A toast," Macy said, lifting his club soda. "To Woody, who has been through hell and back."

"To Jordan, for _bringing _him back," Lily added, looking pointedly at their hands. He almost pulled his from Jordan's, but she gripped it tighter. "Even _if_ he was kicking and screaming."

There were a few snickers at that, for various reasons. He forced another smile he didn't feel. Jordan downed her drink and kissed him. That was _their _version of a toast, one she had invented to get them past the overeager well-wishers at their wedding reception. He had just been bewildered by her insistence that they _not _elope, which he would have preferred after what Quince put him through. Nigel had found Max, Jordan wore white, and Father Paul officiated.

It was the kind of wedding that Woody had imagined for them before he was shot, before everything got so confused. Somehow, Jordan was convinced that it was what he still wanted, and she made sure that he got it. He would have been happy with a justice of peace or even a tacky Vegas chapel. He didn't need the fanfare. Almost couldn't stand it.

"_I never thought _you'd _be the one to get cold feet," Jordan teased him as she straightened his tie. He had pulled it out and unbuttoned his collar, his hair sticking in every direction after all the times he had run his hands through it. He would admit it. He was ready to run. "We're not dealing with the pity thing again, are we? Woody, I love you. These past three months were _not_ and have _never_ been about pity. I thought I lost you. I never want to lose you again."_

"_So you said when you proposed," Woody agreed. "Jordan, _are _you sure about this? Maybe we were wrong to try—"_

"_Woody, just trust me. It is _my_ turn to hold_ you_ tighter," she said, taking his face in her hands and kissing him. He closed his eyes. It was his turn to let her have the faith, to let her believe despite his doubts._

Six months and counting. Miss Fear-of-Commitment Jordan Cavanaugh was now Mrs. House-in-the-Suburbs Jordan Hoyt. She _had_ grown up. She was ready for that picket fence and the two-point-five kids. Well, maybe that was an exaggeration. Still, she had given him enough hints lately that she was open to the _idea _of kids. _He_ was trying to adjust to the idea of the picket fence.

"You sure you're okay, Woody?" Jordan asked softly. The others had fallen into conversations of their own, smiling and laughing. He nodded. He was used to being on the outside like this.

She leaned against him. "You don't have to lie to me, you know. Or to them. None of us thinks less of you. This was hard for you, and I happen to think you're the bravest damn man in the world."

He looked at her, a sly smile overtaking him. "I _did_ marry you, didn't I?"

She hit him playfully. "That's not why, and you know it."

He nodded again. He lifted the drink, brought it to his lips and set it down again. His therapist called that an improvement. She touched his face gently. 'I love you."

He kissed her forehead. "I love you, too, Jordan."

"You want to leave, don't you?"

He shrugged. "You know me too well."

* * *

"Why did you bring me here—force me from my very comfortable—_our—_very comfortable bed—for this crap?" Jordan asked, poking her fork at a dismal piece of overcooked bacon and wondering if her eggs qualified as a biological hazard. "I was sleeping quite peacefully. And so were you."

"You agreed to have breakfast with me," he reminded her with a smile, a genuine Farm Boy smile, one that she had being missing over the last few months.

"I agreed to breakfast when I thought you meant it in bed," she answered, shaking her head in disgust. She hated this place. Woody knew that. He used to grumble all the time about her decision to come here.

He looked at her, raising an eyebrow. "When did I ever say I was giving you breakfast in bed? And why would I?"

"I did it for you," she said defensively.

"Please. That blackened piece of toast does not count as breakfast," he insisted, grinning. Two smiles. She couldn't help one of her own. Today was a good day. They'd made it through the night without a nightmare, and he was joking and smiling again.

She shrugged, feeling some color in her cheeks. "It was an honest mistake."

He laughed. Her "honest mistake" had been his toaster's fault. He had a nice one someone got him insisting a single man needed it to survive, and it had more bells and whistles than her refrigerator. He had not bothered to explain how the damn thing worked, and next thing she knew, she had an entire loaf of overcooked bread.

"I don't care if you cook, Jordan. I told you that before," he said as he gathered up her plate, cleaning up their unfinished dishes and taking the tray to the trash.

"And if you really don't care, why do you keep bringing it up?" she asked, joining him near the door. He helped her into her coat, and she pulled his scarf even around his neck.

He held open the door for another couple coming in, and she waited impatiently until she finally realized what this was. It had nothing to do with breakfast, which had been undeniably bad. No, this was about taking back his life.

This had been their ritual, before Quince, before she came into their lives and nearly destroyed them. The woman's evil shadow had hung over them for months. Woody had been her prisoner, had endured a hell he still wouldn't speak of unless he was forced to, had lost so much to the Bleeding Heart Killer.

Not anymore. This was Jordan's Farm Boy, and he was back. He was not going to let that bitch stop him anymore. Not from laughing or smiling, from enjoying his life. He had finally shed the last of her hold on him, and he was ready to move on.

Jordan wrapped her hand in his, ready to take that step with him. She pictured Quince off in her cell, screaming at the loss of her power and smiled.

Woody looked over at her. "What's that?"

"I'm just glad I have you back, Farm Boy."

He shook his head. "I'm not back, Jordan. But I _am_ getting there."

"We have today off, you know," she reminded him. "And there's this very big, very comfortable bed that has our names on it..."

"You want to go back to bed?" he asked with a frown, clearly enjoying the sun on his face and the brace of the cool air through the trees.

"I didn't exactly say that, either," she said with a grin of her own. She was rewarded with another genuine smile and laugh.

And so much more.


End file.
